


Silver

by eloquated



Series: The Weight of Snow [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Announcements/Secrets, Athletes, Best Friends, Gen, Nationalism, Winter Olympics, YOIRarePair2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28595112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: Victor has been seventeen for a month, and the silver medal in his hand is heavier than all the ones that have come before it.
Relationships: Victor Nikiforov & Georgi Popovich
Series: The Weight of Snow [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020247
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21
Collections: YOI Rare Pair Week 2021





	Silver

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is set during chapter 3 of The Weight of Snow, and I'm not sure how much sense it will make if you haven't read the stuff that comes before. I've tried to make it fairly self explanatory, but it's always hard to tell how well that's worked!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> For the YOI Rare Pair Week, the fill 'Gifts/Surprise'.

Victor has been seventeen for a month, and the silver medal in his hand is heavier than all the ones that have come before it.

He has the short program, but the free skate is a different beast entirely.

He might have it. There's a chance. He's currently in second place, and it might be enough.

But there are also three people left to skate, and Victor isn't counting this victory until he's standing on the podium.

231.22. 

Whatever happens, he's proud of his score. And he's proud of his performance. 

The Olympics are different from anywhere he's competed before. 

It's not like skating at the Grand Prix, or the Worlds. The crowds are bigger, soaring above the ice on staggered bleachers, because there are so many people. They watch with eager eyes, on the edge of their seats.

They will never have this experience again. So they cheer all the louder for their favourites, counting the scores in their heads just like the athletes do. They wave bright signs, and wear their country's colours.

They've come with their pride, and it shows. 

Victor has fans, and it still feels bizarre to have total strangers calling his name. He poses for their photos, and signs their programs, and tries to puzzle out when this became part of his life. He doesn't feel glamorous, with his sore feet and his messy suitcase. 

But they see only the glittering image from the ice, and Victor's quietly grateful for that illusion.

Behind the scenes there is a fine tension in the air, and Victor's used to that. But this isn't just figure skaters, not here. Not at the Olympics. 

It's the speed skaters with their strange, hinged skates, and the skiers with their long poles and brightly coloured skis. There are people with sloped, sleek helmets and costumes that are more armor than fashion. 

You couldn't pay Victor enough to get into one of those sleds, careening wildly down the sheer ice at a hundred miles per hour, and he has nothing but respect for the people who do. He can only imagine how terrifying it must be.

But some fears are universal. They resonate through them all, no matter which country they hail from, or which sport they're competing in.

Everyone is here to win. Because everyone has dedicated their lives to this moment. 

They've spilled blood and sweat, and broken their bodies before the altar of athletic perfection. And they're here, they've made it, and nobody wants to go home empty handed.

Sometimes they look at Victor strangely, casting sidelong glances at his pale hair and young face. They hear his thick accent, and they make their judgments-- he's Russian, and even if they can't hear his voice, they can see it on his jacket. It's mostly blue and white this season, but people still make assumptions. They still expect to see the hammer and sickle, and the Russian team in red.

Western media paints Russians like James Bond villains, and Cold War spies. 

Everyone thinks they know that a Soviet can't be trusted.

It's exciting for them, so they don't care that Victor was a little boy when his whole country was turned upside down. He's not from Moscow, and he doesn't have any relatives in the KGB. He's not secretly a spy, or a mole, and everything he knows about espionage was learned from American movies with terrible subtitles. 

It's been thirteen years, but the world is slow to change its mind. 

Victor promises himself that he'll work on his English harder in the future. He's going to be here again-- this won't be his only chance at the Olympics, and next time is going to be different. 

Next time he'll be twenty-one, no longer the youngest. 

Second youngest, he amends as he looks over at Georgi at the kiss and cry. He's wringing his hands, and nervous, and Victor can't blame him because the judges are taking so long to announce his scores. Even Yakov looks guarded, his mouth tight and brows drawn.

It was a beautiful performance. As close to perfect as Victor has ever seen him skate. 

But it all comes down to the numbers, and those are out of their hands.

So he sits there in his purple and black costume, the lights catching the tiny sequins and rhinestones across his shoulders, and Victor knows how young they both feel here. 

Georgi's competing against Robbie Miralles, both of them hovering on the edge of the bronze; and Victor feels ill when he looks across the ice and avoids his eyes.

It doesn't matter, he tells himself. He's not here for Robbie, he's here for Georgi. 

His best friend is the only thing that matters right now, and he casts Georgi his brightest, most reassuring smile. 

And by the time the tinny voice of the announcer is halfway through the scores, Victor knows how this is going to end. It's going to be close, he can feel it in his stomach, churning with that strange blend of hope and nerves that he knows so well.

Georgi meets his eye, and the world pauses for a moment with their shared joy. 

220.13. 

It might not be enough to place third, but it's Georgi and not Victor that's pushed Robbie Miralles from the podium. It's Georgi that ended his dreams of an Olympic medal in his final year. 

Victor's never told him what happened that night, but they know each other like their own reflection, and Georgi's filled in the blanks for himself. 

At the end of the day, Victor takes silver, and Georgi comes in fourth by a few percents of a point. 

When you're competing in a pool of thirty, there's no shame in fourth.

"Next time you're going to be up there with me." Victor promises from his bed on the other side of the room that night, and he hears Georgi's laugh in the darkness.

He can't sleep, he's wired on the adrenaline high that hasn't crashed yet, and the bubbly fizz of stolen champagne, because he's still too young to drink. 

Victor doesn't think about Robbie at the banquet, his expression dark and unresigned to his position. To the end of his career. He doesn't think about their night together, or the pain, or the shame-- because it's done. Over.

Victor's star is rising, he doesn't need that anchor around his ankles.

And Victor's proven to himself that he can do this. He doesn't need Robbie like a good luck charm; he can skate without him.

It was Victor's name on that score board. His feet on the podium. The medals in his hands.

Second best, it announced to the world in glowing block letters. 

Second best, and growing stronger every day.

He wants to remember this moment for always. It's happened, indelible-- no matter what comes tomorrow, this can't be undone.

With the squeak of ancient, protesting springs, Victor drops down on the edge of Georgi's bed. "I can't sleep. I think I need to get a tattoo, something to remember tonight." 

It's impulsive, mad, and he's grinning like he's finally started to settle back into his own skin again.

Georgi looks up at him, and fumbles for the clock on the bedside table, the glowing lights displaying the very late... Early, very early... Hour. "Vitya, it's almost on in the morning, where are you going to get a tattoo now?"

"I'm sure there's somewhere!"

"Somewhere that's going to give you tetanus, or worse."

But he's already getting out of bed, fumbling for clothes in the dark. He can't sleep either, and the ceiling isn't very interesting, so why not? At least he can try to keep Victor out of too much trouble.

Arm in arm, Victor pulls him out of the room and into the hotel corridor. Tomorrow they fly back to St. Petersburg, and life will return to normal. 

But today, Victor Nikiforov, the skinny little boy from the frozen edge of a nowhere town in Siberia, is an Olympic medalist. 

He's accomplished the nearly impossible, and it feels like every eye is on him. 

Waiting to see what he's going to do next.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me just about everyone as Eloquated, or just pop into the comments for chat about all things YOI! ❤️


End file.
